![nytimes.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmeQbSmzeJbL3F38PB7t7ZaVP1NjeR2TBMF6HYB33a3W9d/nytimes.jpg)
(Image from the NY Times)

Ash fell like snowfall for weeks. It coated the sidewalks and bus stops and stop lights while also clogging up the drains in black, gummy messes. People walked faster to work, walked faster going home. Rooms and hallways were turned into areas for cleaning and de-ashing, though the ash would never go away completely. All was covered in a dusty patina. 

Plastic film was affixed to windows and patio doors in attempts to keep the air quality as fresh as possible. This lasted until the outdoor units became clogged themselves and began sucking in the ash and sending it through the duct work, smogging up whole homes and buildings. Everything tasted of ash; there was no escaping the thickness of the air, the density of every breath through the face masks a reminder (as if the constant falling ash wasn't enough). 

Perpetual fog without all the romance. Every breath a labored one, every breath saved so there was no waste. Pleasantries stopped being exchanged and we began to communicate in clumsy sign language, signaling our wants and desires, transcribing news upon the air between us as our fingernails grayed and dirtied from the movement. 'Better them than our lungs,' we thought. Better for our nails to capture the grime than let it build up inside our hearts...though the ash had found a way to make a home in plenty of those too.